


At Home Among Strangers

by BardFynarra



Category: Bedlam's Bard - Mercedes Lackey, SERRAted Edge - Mercedes Lackey et al., Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardFynarra/pseuds/BardFynarra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a vision which leads them to an area of the country where Hunters don't go; a place where the things that they hunt don't seem to go either.  And there is a reason for the lack of the Hunters and the Hunted -- and it's going to show the two brothers just how deep the rabbit hole goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet Home Alabama

**Author's Note:**

> Please Note: This is an AU starting at the end of Season 2 with the following differences (SPOILERS): Jake didn’t kill Sam (Dean got there and his warning was enough time to alert Sam to the attach; Sam wound up killing Jake instead). While they still went to the Devil’s Gate with Bobby and Ellen, and it was opened, Azazel got away when one of the escaping demons rushed past in the way and was hit by the Colt instead. This is a few months later (some demons sent back, such as the Seven).
> 
> This is also a crossover with the SERRAted Edge/Bedlam’s Bard universe of Mercedes Lackey.
> 
> Also note, I’ve not been back to Mobile in a good many years, so please take my possible inaccuracies in stride.
> 
> And, lastly, each chapter title is a song name (not necessarily that I like, just a song name).

Sam gasped, sitting bolt upright, taking a moment to remember where he was. It could have been anywhere, really. Any one of millions of motel rooms scattered across the States: mass produced watercolor prints, slick polyester bedspreads that matched the drapes, the hum of the climate control unit by the window making the curtains billow a little, filling the room with the flickering light of the rainy day outside. The other hard bed was occupied with the lump that was his brother, one of Dean’s eyes cracked open blearily, his hand under his pillow no doubt on the it of his favorite knife. “Again?” Dean murmured, sounding far too awake for just having been roused, particularly after the night they’d had.

Sam sighed, dropping his head into his hands. “Y-yeah.”

“Need to cut this crap out, Sam.”

“You find the off switch, you let me know.”

Dean sighed, extracting is hand from under his pillow and pushing himself up slowly, running his hands over his face. “Well?” When Sam just blinked at his brother, Dean rolled his eyes. “What’d the Shining tell you this time?”

Sam managed a ‘look’ at his brother, then sighed. “It was—there was a fire; black fire. It was on this—building—weird one. A city or a large town or something.”

Dean sighed. “Think you can figure out which one?”

Sam sighed. “Like I’ve got a choice?”

***

Dean slipped back into the room, shaking the rain off of his battered old leather jacket and securing the privacy lock. Sam was sitting at the small, unstable table tucked into the corner between the beds and the window, the laptop open before him. Dean plopped the faintly grease-damp bag down on the table by Sam’s hand, flopping down into the other chair. “Lunch.” Sam shook his head and Dean sighed, digging into the bag and extracting a white-paper wrapped burger, folding down one side and taking a bite. “Find anything?”

Sam sighed and turned the laptop around. It was a Chamber of Commerce sight showing a very modest ‘skyline’ mostly silhouetted against a glorious sunset. “It was that one; the one with that weird half-dome hood thing on top.”

“Moe-bile, Alabama?” Dean snorted.

“I think it’s pronounced ‘Moe-beal’,” Sam said wearily rubbing his forehead and watching his brother polish off the burger (extra onions). “And yeah.”

“We got anything near there?”

“No. It’s quiet. And when I say quiet, I mean— _very_ quiet. Noting. Not in the Journal—none of the usual sites, the news—nothing. I mean—there’s a few local legends, but nothing harmful. A few old ghost stories—I mean—there were a few Civil War battles in the area, some haunted forts and things, Welsh-speaking Indians, but none of it raises any flags. Nothing.”

“How far back did you go.”

“Pretty far,” Sam sighed. “Dean—it’s like—nothing happens there. I mean—the occasional thing that might be our field, but it goes away quietly and very quickly. And look—I mapped out all the cases I could find in the Gulf Coast region as far back as I could.” Sam leaned over and collapsed the website window to show a map with a definite blank spot around the Mobile Bay area.

“That’s—weird.” Dean pursed his lips. “Think there’s, like some Hunters in the area or something?”

“Not that I can tell; most Hunters seem to avoid the place. I mean—remember when we were going from Biloxi from that nasty poltergeist to Florida for that conquistador spirit?”

“Yeah?”

“Look—we should have gone straight through—interstate runs right straight through, but we went up and around. Why?”

“I like two-lane black top.”

“We were in a rush; so why?” 

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Something’s keeping Hunters and bad stuff out?”

“Only one way to find out.”

***

The rain pounded against the roof of the Impala as Dean squinted through the sheets of rain, trying to keep his eye on the road. “Man—I thought that place in Washington with all the sparkly vampires was supposed to be the rainiest place in the country.”

Sam turned and shot his brother a long look. “You—read _Twilight_?”

“What? No! It—was on the television one night—nothing else on.” Dean noted Sam’s continued stare. “Shut up.” Sam managed a slight grin, shaking his head a little, then glancing down at the map spread out on his lap as they moved past a mile marker on the interstate. “So how soon till we get to this magic line or whatever?” Dean said.

“Another mile or so, maybe—hard to say, exactly,” Sam said.

“Hope so; I need a pitstop.”

“Dean—we can’t stop. IF we lose momentum, chances are we’ll find some excuse not to go in there if this place really is repelling Hunters and stuff.”

“Yeah, but still—once we hit town, we’re stopping somewhere that has pie.”

The Impala’s engine spluttered. “What—“ Sam said.

“Huh? Saying we’re out of gas—but we just filled up back in Mississippi, like—20 miles ago.”

Sam frowned. “Can we keep going?”

“Without gas? There’s an exit there—truck stop—we—“

Sam tensed. “No, Dean. Keep going. Put your foot down.”

“What?” 

“Just do it!”

Muttering, Dean lowered his foot on the pedal. The car spluttered, lurching, starting to slow as the engine cut in. The tires skidded in the water standing on the interstate and Dean cursed, fighting to keep the car steady as a semi roared past on their left, followed by an SUV that honked. “Sonnuva—“

The car lurched and spluttered again as Dean struggled with it, flipping on his hazards as the car started rolling for the side of the road and the approaching exit. Sam stared at him, then reached over and jerked the wheel back to the left when it became evident Dean was aiming for the beckoning exit and the well-lit truck stop. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just past the exit, Dean—we need to get past the exit.”

Cursing, Dean struggled with the car as it skidded in a few puddles past the exit and forward a few more feet before coming to rest on the shoulder. Both of them felt a chill, their breath misting for a few seconds and then—

The car roared to life, the gas gauge swerving back to point to ¾ tank. “What the _hell_?”

“I think we made it past it.”

A flare of red and blue lights behind them made them both jump. “Oh crap!”

Both brothers tensed, watching the murky shadow of a state trooper step out of the police SUV behind them, slogging along the shoulder towards them. Dean rolled the window down. “Uh—“

“You boys all right? Saw you having some trouble.”

“Uh—yeah—think—the car was acting funny for a moment—maybe got some of this damned water up in the engine or something—hydroplaned right past the exit.”

The cop, fairly stereotypical with his ruddy face, square jaw, and blonde buzz cut under the wide brim of his had peered at them. “Think you can make it to the next exit?”

“Uh—yeah—think so. Hopefully she’s better now,” Dean said, patting the Impala’s dash.

“Well—be careful—we get rain like this a lot this time of year.”

“Surprised you don’t drive around in boats then,” Dean managed.

The cop cracked a smile. “We’ve thought about it a few times. Welcome to Mobile.”

***

The bar was a somewhat battered steel-building located near the corner of one of the universities that Mobile housed. There were pool tables, pinball machines, video games, and quite a few people for a weeknight, most of them likely college students. Sam and Dean, with their beers, the remains of the subs they’d eaten, and their laptop didn’t stand out at all in the loud crowd. “So did you get anything other than the numbers of some single girls while you were over there at the bar for so long?” Sam asked dryly.

“Well—one little thing. It didn’t make the local papers much—barely got notice other than the heightened security alert to the campus here--but there was a murder in this housing area behind the university the last night: throat torn, missing blood—“

“Vampires?”

“Yup. Sounds like.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t make a lick of sense. I mean—if blood suckers are in the area, why isn’t someone like that freak Gordon down here like holy fire.”

“You remember the car.”

“Yeah I remember; and if I find the thing responsible for messing with my baby—“ Dean left it hanging.

The door opened up to the rain admitting a strange couple. The first was a girl of indeterminate age with unflattering plastic-framed glasses on her face and shapeless, if practical clothes on, these damp from the rain despite the massive umbrella she was adding to the gathering of other umbrellas near the door: oversized t-shirt in red, baggy cargo-style capris made of denim, Birkenstock clogs on her feet, her damp, slightly frizzy hair pulled into a ponytail. Her companion was opposite in most aspects, though both were slender and moved with a certain grace: tall and slender, golden blonde hair tumbling to mid-back, a beautiful if somewhat androgynous face set with a pair of unhindered emerald green eyes. This one wore a pair of clinging jeans and black leather boots that stopped just short of the knee—and a light cotton tunic, loose and vaguely Indian in styling. As a pair they scanned the room as if looking for someone. Both paused on the brothers’ table before moving on as the two moved up to the bar, placing orders and coming away with a pair of mugs and cans of stout as they made their way to the booth next to theirs, both of them sitting on one side and speaking to each other in low voices as they started in on their drinks.

“Dean—“ Sam began, then rolled his eyes as his brother turned in his seat to face the pair behind him. “Hi, Ladies,” he said amicably. “Buy you the next round?”

The two exchanged glances—and for some reason, the shorter of the pair dissolved into laughter. The tall blonde smiled, a twinkle lighting the emerald eyes. “While I appreciate the offer and would take you up on it, I really don’t think that you made it in the right context,” said the blonde in a silken, deep voice.

A very _male_ voice.

Sam spluttered with laughter, nearly choking on his beer watching he realization dawn on Dean’s face. His brother went red, then a faintly sickly grin appeared. “Uh—sorry. It—it’s the hair, man.”

“Oh—I imagine a few other things, but the hair certainly doesn’t help,” the beautiful man laughed easily, poking a sender finger into the ribs of his still-laughing companion. “I dance some nights at Caligulas—that’s a strip club a couple of miles from here; the hair helps with that somewhat.”

“Uh—yeah. Guess. Um—forget it.”

The laughing girl at the man’s side managed to wheeze a few low words to the blonde between continued titters. The blonde smiled again. “Perhaps we can buy the two of you some drinks instead, as apology for your embarrassment and my friend’s continued hilarity over here. As a welcome.”

“Uh—that’s okay. We—uh—got a welcome from the cop who stopped to help us when we were having car troubles.”

“Yes, he said as much,” the blonde said amicably and Sam felt his laughter cut off sharply. “As you stopped here—we decided to come and see if there was something that drew two Hunters here, despite everything.” Sam felt his stomach drop somewhere past his feet. “Especially the two younger Winchesters.” Sam saw Dean’s hand inching towards his jacket, likely or a weapon. “And calm yourself; we mean neither of you any harm; we just want to talk.” The blonde straightened, gesturing at the empty side of their booth. “Please—join us, won’t you? Drinks are on us.”


	2. Talking in the Dark

Sam and Dean exchanged wary looks, glancing around the bar. The crowd was mainly as it had been, but both brothers could see a few people here and there casting them more glances than would be casual. Slowly, Sam closed the laptop, grabbed his beer then slid into the booth opposite the odd pair, Dean sliding in after them. “The cop is on your payroll?”

“We pay no one, but yes, he is part of the Alliance—he helps watch the borders for those stubborn enough to make it past the wards and deterrents we have set up and to let the rest of us know what may be coming in,” the blond said calmly. “And before you ask—he’s human—gifted with empathy and enough of a touch of prophecy that he’s learned not to ignore his dreams.” The emerald eyes flickered to Sam.

“Alliance?” Dean queried.

“Mobile—the area around Mobile, including a bit north, some to the east and west, and down into the Gulf a little ways is a Sanctuary, one of perhaps a dozen in the world that are left,” the blonde said, pausing to take a deep pull of his Guinness, his companion having been working on hers steadily since they’d settled in the booth. “That means it is a safe haven for—the unusual: humans with gifts or abilities—sometimes afflictions or curses—that set them apart or set them in danger anywhere else; and for—the other than human who wish to live in peace.”

“Peace; monsters.” Dean snorted.

The blonde lifted an eyebrow, then lifted a graceful hand, lifting his hair away from the side of his face. For a second nothing stood out—then there was a slight ripple in the air, as if from heat—and his ear was suddenly showing a definite, delicate point. The air rippled again, returning to rounded and the man dropped his hair calmly. “Not human, but not a monster. Nor are all ‘monsters’ technically evil—I believe you’ve encountered evidence of this.”

“Lenore,” Sam muttered. He paused. “What—about werewolves.”

The blonde searched Sam’s face, then winced. “That—depends on the lineage of the lycanthrope who did the turning, it seems. We have a fair few here—ones that tend to form packs—gangs, really—rather than be solitary. And it also has to do with the environment—“ He sighed. “There’s no easy answer. Suffice to say, yes—we have some here, living in peace. Perhaps a bit more aggressive, but nothing fatal—and they keep the medical industry here busy with broken noses and bones.” He rolled his eyes, then pointed at one of the nearby pool tables. “They’re all werewolves.”

Dean and Sam looked over—and the group around the pool table looked back. One of them grinned; the teeth were slightly pointed, but he just waved and turned to rub the chalk over the end of his cue in preparation for his shot. “What—else you got kicking around here—demons?”

“Demons are, by their very nature, evil, so no,” the blonde said firmly. “Corrupted, tortured souls—“ he sighed.

“Wait—what?”

“Why did you think demons followed the same weaknesses as what you call spirits?” Sam and Dean blinked. “That’s what they are, essentially.” The brothers exchanged wary glances. “In any case, other than what I have already mentioned, we have more of my people—“’

“Which is—“

“Tuatha de Dannaan—the Sidhe. There is a hame of my people in the area— Seighlie, never fear.”

“What?” Dean blinked.

“It’s—I’ll explain later,” Sam said. “Means—they’re—better than they could be.”

The blonde’s brow lifted, but he shrugged. “As I said—the hame and those associated with it other than the Sidhe. We have peaceful vampire and werewolves as I mentioned, and many other—‘monsters’, you’d call them, such as kitsune, provided they abide by the Covenant. We also have ghosts—we call them that to designated them from what you normally face. They are spirits of those who have died, but they are aware and—for lack of a better term—living the best they can. Some go sight-seeing places they never got to while alive; they keep watch over those they cared for while living, try to help improve things—take care of younger ghosts, help guide on spirits—that kind of thing. We refer to sprits as the unguided—or perhaps dark ones that you deal with.”

“So—ghosts?”

“Look at the pinball machine there,” the smaller girl spoke up, pushing her empty mug and can towards the edge of the table and gesturing at a nearby game.

Dean looked seeing a non-descript young man—perhaps in his 20s—playing the game. “So?”

“That’s Mark Higgs. He died two years ago; he’s sticking around so he can read the end of his favorite book series.”

“That’s a—“ Dean broke off, seeing someone walk through part of the back of the man, the girl shivering slightly, the ghost looking over his shoulder to see who’d passed through him, then shrugging and going back to his game. “O-okay.”

“We’ve got a family here who run a—uh—supply shop. Eight generations under one roof—all but the last three—a bit breezy,” the blonde said, chuckling.

“So—how does this Alliance thing work? You—mentioned other places like this—and some kind of Covenant?” Sam asked.

“Yes. Our model is based closely to one that exists—around Mount Fuji in Japan,” the blonde said. “We have Borders set up; around those borders we have wards to warn us of evil coming our way, of Hunters. We have protections—spells—built around the borders to—deter those who would harm us from entering. Nothing harmful, just directing them away—“

“My car—“

“Illusion only; also flagged you for our Border patrol to keep an eye on you as a potential issue,” the girl said. “We’ve got some people who work as police, some who run the local AAA—that kind of thing. Sorry—it’s a nice car.”

“You—“

“I’m one of the Defenders,” the girl said, “I know when potential threats come in—and you landed in my area, so we came to see what it is that worried you enough to bring you here despite the protective spells.”

“De—defender?”

“The protected area within the Borders is divided into five areas with the strongest being, human or otherwise, within each area as the Defender—part of a sort of—ruling council that ensure the Covenant is being enforced and oversees the network of cooperation. If someone or something gets out of line, they are warned and/or dealt with.”

“Like that nest of vampires in Hillsboro last night,” the girl said. “Thought they’d found a prime spot—we took care of that and did what we could for the family of the one they took—and his spirit.”

“You’re Hunters?”

“Not exactly,” the girl said. “We do what you do, but with a limited area and—rules.”

“So—you’re the most powerful being in your area?” Dean lifted his brow at the nondescript girl.

“In the whole Sanctuary—she’s the leader of the Council of Defenders,” the blonde said.

“Maev Fallon, by the way. And yeah,” the girl said looking, suddenly tired. “Long story.”

“And I’m Althairne; these days I go by ‘Al’,” the blonde added.

“Call me ‘Al’?” Sam managed with the faintest of grins.

“Some hilarity did come into play upon the release of that song, as I recall,” Al said, his eyes twinkling. “Especially on my part, I can assure you.”

“So—what do you plan on doing to us?” Dean demanded.

“Do? So long as you mean no harm to people in the area, we do nothing,” Al said, looking startled.

Maev looked up as a large group came in. “Lord—forgot it was pack night.”

“Trouble?”

“No—just loud and they tend to run out of cheap beer very fast,” she said. “Look—why don’t you two come over to my apartment and we can keep talking.”

“Your—apartment.”

“My day job is as a musician and a professor at the university,” Maev said. “Al does the dancing thing and also cooks at a restaurant downtown and does some baking for a bakery down there, too. We live here, you know, and the normal and blissfully ignorant outnumber us by quite a margin.” She sighed. “We all know what fear does to people.” She reached down and tugged a small, battered notebook out of the pocket of her pants. She pulled out a piece of paper and set it down on the table, touching a finger to it. Ink seemed to bleed out of nothing, covering the paper with writing. She pushed it across the table. “Directions to my place; gate code’s on the back along with my cell number.” She looked up at them through the lenses of her glasses. “If you decide not to, that’s fine—there’s some hotels down near the interstate, I’m sure you saw.” She slipped out of the booth, stretching and rubbing at her back. “Hope to see you soon.”

Al slipped out after her as she walked off towards the door, selecting her umbrella from amongst the grouping. With a last wave and smile, the two of them went back out into the downpour.

***

The rain had slowed, but still made noise as it pattered down onto the roof of Impala. They were parked outside of a 24 hour McDonalds, watching the slow stream of cars going through the drive thru for late night munchies. “This has got to be the weirdest situation we’ve ever been in, and that’s saying something,” Sam said, looking around through the rain-drenched darkness warily.

“What part of getting asked to hang out with a witch, or whatever she is, and an elf or whatever—“

“I’m guessing it’d probably be best not to call him one of those to his face, Dean—they can get rather—excitable in the stories.”

“What was that—Se-See—“

“Seighlie. The Sidhe are divided into 2 or 3 groups; the Seighlie are the ones that are nicer—helping people with, like, handfuls of gold, maybe the occasional trick—that kind of thing. The other kind—well—they’re bad news.”

“Whatever—I mean—I’m all for getting out of here.”

“And—what, Dean—come back with Hunters to wipe these people out? Dean—they haven’t done anything to us. And—remember the dream.”

“Yeah—well—I don’t exactly trust that whole Shining thing you’ve got going on; I mean—look where it came from.” Dean saw his brother’s uncomfortable look and sighed. “Look—I know you’re worried—but if they’re even telling part of the truth then we’re in deep crap, you know that? I mean—ghosts—running free? Werewolves and god only knows what else—“

“They seem to be peaceful. I mean—otherwise—we’d have heard something; Hunters would come here, right?”

“So—what—you want to go?”

“Do we have a choice?” Sam sighed. “Dean—we’re here. We—might as well.” Dean scowled at the steering wheel and Sam pressed on. “You know we have to.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to friggin’ like it, does it?” Dean snapped back. There was a moment of rain-soaked silence, then he sighed, turning the key in the ignition a little more forcefully than was necessary. “Where does Glinda want us to go?”


	3. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-a lot of exposition in this one, not a lot of action. =x Grab a drink.

The apartment, complex, at least, looked completely normal. It was gated, but the five digit code that was on the paper worked easily enough and Dean followed the signs through the complex, past the main building and pool, towards apartment 11-107. Building 11 was tucked into a back corner of the complex, thick trees on two sides of the building making dark walls as Dean parked the Impala in one of the slots marked ‘Visitor’. The building was divided into eight apartments, four on either of two floors. 107 was the one in the back corner on the ground floor. A door mat rested on the cement before the door, decorated with a slogan: Please check your sanity at the door. 

Snorting, Dean knocked on the door, his other hand in his coat pocket—no doubt gripping some weapon. Sam watched him warily, then glanced as he saw the faint pinhole of light coming through the peep hole flicker and the sound of locks being thrown—and the door opened.

The girl who answered was the same who had talked to them in the bar—but she had changed out of the formless clothes into a set of knit shorts and a tank top—an outfit that showed a small, but very fit and toned body. Her hair was down, curling softly around her face and shoulders, to nearly her mid-back, and the glasses had been set aside showing a lovely face with dark doe-brown eyes. Sam’s attention was immediately drawn to the scars: a set of four parallel white lines disappearing under the fabric near her left breast, a thin spiral of white that wound around her left arm, the pale line that curved along her jawline, and, more obviously, the wide bands of slightly rougher skin that circled her left wrist and both ankles. “You familiar with the Rite of Invitation?” she said, peering first at Dean, then at Sam.

Sam paused. “Yes.” When Dean looked at him, he cleared his throat. “It’s—pretty old. If someone invites you into their home, that means they’re—like family until they leave. The times people have violated that—like—in the Odyssey and stuff—well—it’s supposed to be pretty bad.”

“Very bad. And we follow it.”

“Yeah—and we know this—how?”

Maev rolled her eyes. “You can believe it or not, Dean, but unless you try to hurt us—“ she looked pointedly at the hand he had in his pocket, “we’re not going to lift a finger against you. Now come on in; you’re letting in the humidity and mosquitos. You are both welcome in my home.” She stepped back, pulling the door wider and lifting a brow.

Exchanging glances, Dean took a deep breath—and stepped across the threshold, Sam following.

Both brothers shivered faintly, feeling—a slight resistance in the air as they passed into the doorway. It was brief—then gone. “What—“

“Some of my wards,” Maev said with a graceful shrug, closing the door behind them and latching it. “I’ve got a lot of protection set up on this place—wards and barriers—and things like devil’s traps and the like under the carpet before every door, window, or other ingress, including the oven and dryer vents.

“Uh—expecting trouble?”

“I’m a Bard; we’re usually in trouble.”

“A—what?”

“Bard. I’ll explain in a bit. Have a seat, boys.” She gestured to one side.

They were standing in a rectangular room that housed a sitting room on one side and a dining room on the other. A hallway opened across from them, and a door to the right of that showed the kitchen, Al in it bustling around the stove. “Hang on—isnt’ that—steel?”

“Was—I replaced all the ferrous materials in here with something else when I moved in—including the door.” Maev shrugged. “I have Al over a lot and sometimes meetings with other residents of Underhill—and some ghosts and the like. Not a good idea to hurt house guests—remember?”

The dining room was occupied with a round table, the surface buried under books, mail, and old newspapers. The walls were surrounded with floor-to-ceiling shelves of CDs aside from where a rather impressive-looking stereo resided. Dean glanced at the selections and was startled to see a vast mix of selections from classical to movie soundtracks, to modern and his favorites, like Kansas, Zeppelin, and AC/DC. The stereo was on, playing, of all things, Alice Cooper’s “Roses on White Lace” on a low volume.

The living room had two large lacquered cabinets occupying the other wall, one holding the television and a selection of paraphernalia, like gaming systems, DVDs, and even a VCR. The wall to the side of that was flanked with burdened bookshelves on either side of French doors that led out to a patio dominated by a grill and a pair of wooden Adirondack chairs. The other wall had a low wooden futon flanked by stacks of plush floor pillows made of sari fabrics. Near one stack was a wooden music stand, a violin resting in a rack near it, a harp, some flutes, and other instruments also near it. “Bathroom’s second door on your right,” Maev said, gesturing down the hall. “First door is the water heater and—well—never mind. Doors on the left are 2 spare bedrooms—one at the far end is mine.” She shrugged. “Second bathroom in there if you both get the urge at the same time or whatever.” She moved past the immobile brothers. “Beer? Or something a bit more recreational?” she said, tugging open the door of the other lacquered cabinet to show an impressive selection of bottles, with a shelf of glasses.

“Uh—“

“Beer. If you have it cold,” Sam said, shooting his brother a pointed look before going to perch nervously on the futon. 

“I’ve got Killians, Guinness, and a couple of micro-breweries. Preference?”

“Uh—whichever.” Sam shot his brother a look. 

“Same.” Dean sat uneasily beside his brother.

Maev blinked, then stepped into the kitchen, opening the fridge and rummaging on the bottom shelf, pulling out three bottles and tugging the magnetic church-key off the front. “Take your pick; nice amber,” she held out the bottles. 

Sam and Dean each took one, taking the key long enough to open their bottles before passing it back to their host who opened her own, folding gracefully to sit on the floor near them. Al slipped out of the kitchen, shedding a red canvas apron as he came, holding his own bottle as he sat down. “Lasagna is in the oven.”

“Lasagna?”

“You know—layered noodles, cheese, and sauce?” Al said, a faint smirk quirking his sensuous lips.

“I _know_ what it is,” Dean said dryly, shooting the elf a look, “I meant—you—making it?”

“I spent a few centuries in Italy.” He shrugged.

“Uh—“

“You have questions,” Maev interrupted, poking her friend a little. “So—go ahead.”

“You—said you were powerful. _What_ are you?”

Maev smiled faintly, gesturing with the bottom of her bottle at the instruments. “Bard. Obviously using music as my primary.”

“A—what?”

“How well versed are you on magic?”

“Uh—we’ve run into some witches—“

“I presume,” Al said, “that you’re referring to the kind that make dark bargains and tend to be quite nasty in what they do with their power?”

“Yeah; you could say that,” Dean said dryly.

“Well—another group call themselves witches, but they’re—ritualistic magic: spells through prayer and so on. Wiccans are some of them—that kind of thing. Then there are mages or wizards or whatever—they call themselves many things. These people are born with powers, of varying kinds in varying strengths and different methods of using it. Bards are able to wield more power because it is—somewhat abstract to them. Most magic users see power as lines or weaves—patterns and spells. Bards see it in their artform—Maev hears power as music—chords—that sort of thing. Most other magic users, my people included, are limited by what we would be aware of as dangerous. Human Hunters also fall into this—“

“Wait—Hunters? Doing—hocus pocus? We don’t do the magic thing, Pal,” Dean interrupted quickly.

“What do you think the wards and traps you use are?” Maev said. “Someone without any kind of spark draws those, they’re not going to be much more than lines. It’s a lot about belief and will. And most Hunters wouldn’t survive without the Sight—lets you see what you’re up against—helps you with the reflexes to be able to fight them.”

Dean didn’t look comfortable at the thought. Sam, however, looked at the elf. “Human—hunters? There are hunters amongst—“  
“Of course there are; our peoples are older than humans.” Al fixed the brothers with an even look. “Believe me, as bad as what roams today can be, there are things now extinct and banished that make much of this look like a children’s game.”

“So you are a Hunter.”

“I was,” Al shook his head. “There was an order of Hunters that existed up until—well—not long after the incident with the First Born. There were humans amongst us, but most of us were not. I and my elder sister were part of this.”

“Uh—the First Born?“

“Wasn’t popular with the Sidhe; we have very few children of our own—we cherish children because of this, and no matter the reasons—that—“ he shook his head. “Well—that’s angels for you.”

“Wait—angels are real?”

“Very.”

Dean peered at the Sidhe, trying, but failing to see any humorous twinkle in his eyes. “Then where the hell are they?”

Al paused, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen one since—well—has to be a couple thousand years at least now.” He shook his head. “Beings of utmost devotion; it’s—daunting—being around them. They have no regard for implications, for feelings or cost—only orders.”

Sam winced. “What—are they like—I mean—what do they look like?”

“What does a demon look like to you?”

Sam paused. “What—the black smoke, or—“

“No—as you normally see them.”

“They’re riding around in meat suits,” Dean shook his head. “Can’t really see what they look like.”

“Some can—but that was the point I was getting at. They look like people, unless they show themselves—their eyes: black, white—yellow—“ Sam and Dean winced.

“You’ve had run ins with Azazel too, from what I’ve heard?” Maev said, setting her bottle down on the carpet beside her. 

Sam looked distinctly uncomfortable. Dean glanced at him. “You—could say that. He killed our mom—our dad, too—“

“He does that.” Maev sighed, rubbing at the thick scar around one wrist.

“He—did that?”

“No. Some of his minions did that, trying to get his attention. He did this,” she lifted the bottom of her tank top, showing a white line across her belly before letting the fabric drop. 

“What—“

“It was before I knew what I was; before I was trained. I’d just started school—got abducted on my way home. They could see my power—even if I had no idea I had it. They were going to sacrifice me to get his attention—this place would be a bounty for someone like him—“ she shook her head. “Eventually the pain was enough I started—doing things without realizing. And that attracted Al’s attention.”

“You?”

“Bards are revered—needed—for my people. They help keep us alive; without them we fade to nothingness—into the Dreaming. They help us maintain our links between this world and Underhill—that sort of thing. Her pain—the raw rage of her power—drew me. I got there just after she finished off the minions—and in time to save her from Azazel who was about to finish her off. I triggered one of the standing wards to banish him—and took her Underhill to try to put her back together again.”

“So—what, a year and a day?” Dean said, staring.

“More like four—but to the outside world, it was about a month.” Maev shook her head. “Took a fair bit to heal—the rest—I was learning how to control this stuff—learning how to fight. When I resumed my life—“ she shook her head. “Well—you both know that moment in your life—the moment when you realize you really should check under your bed and in your closet before you go to sleep.”

They were quiet a moment. Sam paused, finishing off his beer. “You said—that order of hunters—was around.”

“We were wiped out. Joining the order meant you forsook your other obligations: family and what not to do what was needed. I was making my farewells and returned to find—our home destroyed and all of the people slaughtered—or worse.” He shook his head. “A cursed spot now, deep in what is now the Sahara.” He sighed. “So I never took formal oaths—but I did what I could and sought the one who had done that.”

“Yellow-eyes,” Dean guessed. At Al’s solemn nod, he scowled. “Dammit—if the Colt just had one more bullet.”

“Colt?” Al blinked. “You have that?” He exchanged glances with Maev. “Well—you’ll probably want to talk to Zeke about that—he might know something.”

“Zeke?”

“A ghost—from about the same time as Samuel Colt,” Maev said. “A Hunter, too—rode with him a few times. He’s one of our munitions suppliers—him and his family.”

“Eight generations worth—3 living—“

“All of them named Ezekial Cain,” Maev grinned faintly. “You’ll like them, trust me. They take their mayhem about like a kid might take Chuck E Cheese.”

“I thought you said demons couldn’t get in here.”

“Not unless they’re let in,” Maev shook her head. “Our borders aren’t perfect—we’ve got the complexities of the port bringing crap in from Central and South America all the time—“

“You wouldn’t _believe_ the things we’ve found amongst the bananas or some of the artifacts that they’ve tried to smuggle in,” Al groaned.

“And the universities—people come here from all over the world, and they bring the supernatural with them.”

“So how the hell does this thing work?”

“It’s cooperative. If you chose to live here and you’re one of us—you agree to help in some way. Some just do things like let us crash if we’ve worn ourselves out chasing something away from the borders—others help fight—Al fights, but he’s also the best healer in the area.”

“Some, like the young policemen help us patrol—pass on word of things. Some help coordinate emergency reactions—like when John Winchester blew through here about ten years ago—we all stayed as low and quiet as we could until he lost interest and left.” Al shook his head. “He was, I believe, curious about the lack of activity here. Which—brings us to a question we would like to know—what brings you two here, despite everything?”

Sam looked at his brother, then looked down. “It’s—it started with this dream—“


End file.
